


Antifungal Agent

by tawg



Series: The Dangers of Dating a High School Principal [10]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Principal Coulson, book wyrm, the way to a medical professional's heart is with well chosen bribes, you meet the most interesting people when you date an avenger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tawg/pseuds/tawg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Letting the professionals handle a situation may not be one of Phil’s most prominent skills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antifungal Agent

Phil coiled the end of his tie around his fingers as he leaned back in his chair, a cup of cold coffee in his other hand. He was idly alternating between talking himself into going ahead with his harebrained scheme, and talking himself out of it. There were forms to sign and e-mails to write and orders in the order book that needed to be rejected, but he let it all sit in neat piles on his desk.

It was honestly a stupid plan. 

But he liked it more than his other options. 

But it was a very stupid plan.

He was glad for the distraction of Nina’s ballet flats tapping on the linoleum floor as she stepped through the main entrance to the office. “I am so sorry for calling the cops on you!” she called from the reception area. “I didn’t hear from you after your date and you never miss work and there were aliens in New York and I just thought-” She pushed open the door to Phil’s office, and stopped short at the sight of him. “Hola,” she said at last. “Did someone die?”

Phil looked down at his suit. He was in monochrome – black suit, white shirt, black tie. Unnecessarily morbid for a high school, but comfortingly all-purpose. “I have to run an errand this evening,” he replied.

“Are you reading a eulogy? Aren’t pastel shirts the fashionable thing for the black suit-black tie combo?”

“Pastels and fluorescents are both in this season,” Phil replied bluntly. “Fashion is dead to me.”

Nina snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see you in sweatpants. Kat from Saint John Public rang yesterday to give us a heads up on a spot check of cafeterias in the coming week.”

Phil nodded, and turned to his computer to pull up the audit checklist. It was still a workday. Worrying about Clint could wait until his lunchbreak.

~*~

Phil had been escorted back to his apartment late Monday night by two very polite SHIELD agents who had refused to tell him anything about Clint’s whereabouts or his wellbeing. It had been suggested to him that he stop worrying about it, carry on with his regular routine, and call the number provided if any symptoms presented.

“You mean I should call if I fall into a coma?” Phil had asked. He’d been given a tight smile in return and the two agents had backed out of his apartment. He had called the number on the card and was informed by an automated response that assistance would be dispatched to his location if he stayed on the line. He hung up. How very government.

During his own incredibly frustrating period in quarantine he had been told that Clint had potentially been infected with an extraterrestrial parasite, and that there was a risk that he had passed it on. It had been one of the more memorable STI scares of Phil’s life. That was one of the risks of cavorting with a superhero, he had supposed. It wasn’t the herpes talk so much as the ‘highly aggressive, coma-inducing mystery pathogen’ talk. It was one way to keep the relationship interesting.

While setting his apartment to rights (of course it had been checked over for contaminated sheets and clothes and towels and mugs and... CDs?), and after dealing with a visit from some disgruntled police officers (called by one of his neighbours, because Phil had been reported as a missing person in the thirty hours since he’d last seen his apartment), Phil had worried about Clint. Being bundled into the back of an ambulance with an unconscious and unresponsive body had not been the most reassuring moment of his weekend. It had occurred to him that it might not be an uncommon experience, the panic and waiting and nervous doctors and people refusing to answer his questions.

That last point in particular had stung. But Phil had a skill in finding answers. Especially when people told him that he shouldn’t try.

He had stayed up to the early hours of the morning, rubbing Mittens’ ears until the cat forgave him, and pondering any and all possibilities. There were people out there who knew where Clint was being treated, and of those people perhaps one could be persuaded..? No, not likely. So then Phil had examined the problem from the other end. There must be people out there who could sympathise with him, who knew heroes and had access to resources that Phil didn’t.

Twelve hours later, dressed in black and abusing the Crosstown High laminator, Phil sighed as he counted down the minutes to the final bell. It really was a stupid plan.

~*~

Pepper Potts was every bit as refined as the photographs of her had suggested, and she had a harried and exasperated air that was probably intimidating to many but stirred a sense of kinship within Phil. She stared at him for a long moment – his dark sunglasses, his black suit and tie, the conference pass he’d had at the bottom of his desk that had been jazzed up to resemble the few glimpses he’d had of SHIELD security passes, the polished leather of his shoes.

“You’re not a SHIELD agent,” she said bluntly, her words sharpened by a pointed smile. The statement certainly startled the Stark Tower security personnel who had put the call through to her office. Phil had managed to fool them with a mix of stubborn scowling and icy professionalism. “Agents buy their suits off the rack. So what are you?”

The act had gotten Phil exactly as far as he had needed it to, so he took off his sunglasses and tucked them into his shirt pocket before extending a hand. “Principal,” he said. “Phillip Coulson. I’d like to talk to you about Clint Barton, if I may.”

Pepper stared at him critically for a moment, allowing the information to shift and settle under her consideration before she deemed it satisfactory. “Could you excuse me for one moment?” she asked, all professional politeness. When Phil nodded, she reached over the security desk and picked up the phone. “Jarvis, could you please ask Natasha to check the security feed for the ground level foyer?” Phil looked up at the security camera above the desk and gave it a little finger-wave. 

A response came down the line, and Pepper apparently found it to be agreeable. Her expression shifted, and while she remained smiling it softened into something amused and almost roguish. She returned the phone to its holder and then stepped forward and shook Phil’s hand. Her grip was polite and feminine despite the toned muscle of her arms. Seeing her up close in real life, Phil was struck with a sense of how strong she was. And reminded that this had been a very stupid plan.

“Phil,” she said warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You know, you could have just called.”

“I tried,” Phil replied, and left it at that.

Pepper gave him an apologetic smile. “I’ve been in meetings all day.” She didn’t mention that she was an incredibly important person and that only a very small number of people actually had direct access to her, and Phil didn’t see the point in bringing it up. 

“I know the feeling,” he said instead with a mild, tired smile. 

“Here,” she said, putting a hand at his elbow and steering him closer to the security desk. “Get checked in, and then we can talk over a coffee.”

Phil was required to part with Mittens, and he did his best to hide his reluctance. He had nothing else that could be construed as a weapon, or anything else of real value, so at least checking into Stark Tower wasn’t a long process.

“I’m afraid Clint hasn’t told me much about you,” Pepper said, guiding Phil to the lounge section of the open plan foyer. From outside the building it had looked like anyone could sit there and enjoy the tasteful decor. Given that it was past the security desk and conspicuously visible from all angles, Phil knew that it would actually be very difficult for just anyone to sit on the caramel lounges by low black lacquer tables. “How did you two meet?”

“We have a mutual distaste for taxidermy,” Phil replied.

Pepper’s mouth quirked at one corner. “I see.” Without her having given any signal, a waiter came over and a set a stainless steel carafe of coffee on the low table, followed by milk, sugar, a small plate of cookies, and angular white cups. Pepper poured the coffee and gestured towards the milk, which Phil declined. “So,” she asked when they both had cups of smooth, aromatic coffee in their hands, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was hoping you could tell me if my significant other is still alive,” Phil replied, matching her friendly tone. Pepper paused, and Phil gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid my own inquiries have not gotten me very far.”

“SHIELD,” she said flatly.

“Yes,” Phil agreed.

Pepper sighed with exasperation. “It’s nothing personal,” she said.

“Of course,” Phil replied.

“I don’t have access myself,” she said, annoyance in her tone. “The best thing about having the team under one roof is that it’s much easier to find someone to escort me through the rigmarole when Tony gets banged up.” She refocussed on Phil, and looked a little sad. “Clint’s still in quarantine. No one’s getting in to see him.”

“I had suspected as much,” Phil said, and his shoulders drooped a little. He took a sip of his coffee, to fill the awkward pause between them. 

“I could make some calls,” Pepper offered at last. “Get you an update at the very least.”

“I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” Phil replied. Which was clearly a lie, but Pepper Potts was wearing shoes that cost more than Phil’s monthly rent and she was taking time out of her schedule to talk to someone who had compromised the security of her home and workplace. Next time an article referred to her as a ‘fiery-headed Ice Queen’, Phil was going to write a strongly worded letter to the editor.

“I’ll call,” Pepper said firmly. “Tony was in quarantine for three hours over the weekend. They owe me a favour for taking him home early.” She started to rise from her chair, and Phil gestured for her to pause.

“Actually,” he says slowly. “If you have the address I can head over there myself.” Pepper’s face closed down, the easy friendliness fading quickly. “It’s just that it’s generally more productive to talk to someone face to face.”

Pepper raised an eyebrow at Phil. “You planning on batting your baby blues at SHIELD security and waltzing in to visit?” she asked archly.

Phil gave her a small smile. “It worked here,” he replied simply. “Whose security is better, yours or Director Fury’s?”

Pepper gave Phil a long, speculative look. “You’re as bad as Clint,” she declared at last, sounding thoroughly exasperated yet unable to hide her smile. 

She gave Phil the address, and the phone number, and (after a brief conversation with Jarvis) the name of the guard on duty. Phil thanked her, and shook her hand again in parting. Pepper looked him up and down, and nodded approvingly. “You did a good job on the pass,” she commented.

“I’ve seen a few in my time,” Phil replied. Clint’s wallet had been left on Phil’s bedside table, and was tucked safely into Phil’s jacket. After a detailed debate with himself about the morals of prying, he’d flipped through Clint’s wallet and found a SHIELD identification card that he had mimicked. He’d also found about seventeen condoms, which was inexplicable but also touchingly optimistic.

“You don’t make a bad agent,” she said at last as he tucked Mittens back into place about his person.

“I’ve had practice,” Phil replied. At her expectant look, he added, “I went to a dress up party as James Bond once.”

“How was that experience?”

Phil gave his best attempt at a Scottish drawl. “Educational,” he replied, and Pepper laughed.

“Good luck to you then, Agent Coulson.”

~*~

Between Stark Tower in Midtown and the private hospital in Brooklyn Heights, Phil removed his tie and tucked it into a jacket pocket. He had taken a taxi down to Little Italy, searching furiously on his phone for the specific kind of business he needed, followed by several blocks of walking because it was frustratingly hard to find the storefront, and then he had to wait for half an hour while his order was filled. From there it was a second taxi to his final destination.

It was late evening when he arrived at the hospital. He was tired and felt gritty, and had spent more money in one day than he had planned to. The security guard on duty eyed Phil suspiciously, and Phil gave a very good performance of someone who just needed to drop something off and would really like to avoid any fuss. He’d gotten himself into Stark Tower to talk to Pepper Potts of all people, he allowed himself some easy confidence and that in turn helped his case. His package was perhaps significantly more convincing – a caterer’s plate of subs, all aromatic meatballs and melted cheese, and the scent of fresh bread. While the guard was reluctant to even entertain the idea of Phil heading up to the staff break room for the Miscellaneous Treatments ward, the night shift manager, Doctor Hattersly, was thoroughly convinced as soon as she heard that there were hot sandwiches involved.

(Phil’s mother had been a nurse. He knew that free food opened up a lot more doors within a hospital than the flutter of eyelashes.)

Phil told Doctor Hattersly that he only wanted to see that the sandwiches got to the right staff members and then he would be gone. He mentioned that he couldn’t stay for long because he hadn’t had dinner yet. He accepted the invitation to join them. There was a comforting predictability to social niceties, and Phil was not above taking advantage of them. 

Phil took over the break room easily – setting out dishes and disposable napkins, washing the mugs in the sink, clicking his tongue at the coffee machine and setting about cleaning it properly. He exchanged small talk – the changing weather, the news headlines, whether Phil had fallen into any irreversible comas of late...

The topic of Clint came up soon enough. Phil had asked enough questions while he’d been in quarantine that everyone on the floor had quickly learned that he had quite an investment in the Avenger’s wellbeing. Considering that their activities before Clint had slipped into unconsciousness had been recorded for medical reference, it had also spread around that Phil had good reason to be invested. 

Clint’s condition hadn’t improved.

“He’s started moving in his sleep,” the Doctor Hattersly told Phil. “Usually just small twitches, but sometimes he’ll try to sit up.”

“Is that good or bad?” Phil asked.

The doctor shrugged. “We’re not exactly well-versed with this kind of thing. They’re bringing an expert in.” A flash of lightning outside made the lights in the break room flicker momentarily, and a roll of thunder shook the window panes. “Speaking of,” she said with a sigh.

~*~

Thor, God of Thunder, Prince of Asgard, Fan of Pop-tarts, was – in Phil’s general estimation – possibly the largest thing to ever walk the earth. Phil struggled to understand how he fit through doorways. He was over a head taller than Phil, who was not exactly short himself. Thor was all shiny muscle and booming voice and serious concern.

Phil, in a near-crippling feat of self-control, did not ask for his autograph.

“I have seen this before,” Thor said seriously, his arms crossed over his broad chest. They stood by the observation window looking into Clint’s room. A nurse inside the room was filming the wound on Clint’s shoulder, which was displayed to them on a large screen. The graze from Saturday night had developed a dark, zigzag coating. “It is the dreaded rot of Svartalfheim, the plague of the Dark Elves.”

Phil nodded, even though he had no specific idea what Thor (Prince Thor? Mister Odinson?) was saying. But ‘dread’ and ‘rot’ and ‘plague’ were general words that he was familiar with, and he let them shift uneasily around his brain.

“It takes sane men and guides them down crazed paths,” Thor continued. “Friends and warriors become bloodthirsty animals. There is no reasoning with them, and the gates of Asgard are closed to all who are infected.”

“Is there a cure?” Doctor Hattersly asked.

There was a long pause, and Phil felt oddly conspicuous despite no one actually singling him out. Thor glanced at him then, apparently divining that Phil was not gnawing on his thumbnail and staring at Clint out of professional obligation. Phil met Thor’s stare, and raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

Thor looked back through the observation window at Clint, already looking pale and drawn in his unnatural sleep. “I will travel back through the realms,” Thor said at last. “It is a minor wound, and Banner’s is not so severe. We may have a few days yet.”

Which meant that there was no known cure. Phil stared at Clint, maintaining an intent and calm exterior even though he felt hopeless inside. He tuned out the conversation around him and let the building blocks of Thor’s words tumble around him.

Rot.

Dark.

Dread.

Plague.

Svartalf-

“Wait,” Phil said, turning sharply and calling after the gaggle of doctors as they led their borrowed god down the hallway. “Did you say Svartalfheim?”

~*~

It was nearing midnight when Phil returned to Crosstown High. He unlocked the doors leading to the library and slipped inside. Boryn was on him in an instant, knocking him to the ground and coiling tightly around him. For a heart-stopping moment Phil was worried that he’d been too effective in instructing the wyrm on how to deal with intruders, but then Boryn’s odd, wheezy purr filled the dark space.

Phil scratched the wyrm behind its ears, and Boryn all but slid off him, coils loosened in ecstasy. Once Boryn had been adequately snuggled, they split the bag of leftover mini-subs that Doctor Hattersly had insisted Phil take with him, and Phil asked about Svartalfheim.

“Isss cold,” Boryn told Phil. “Issss dark place. I write letterssss. When I get my talisssman I shall sssend them home.”

(Phil had struggled to explain the difference between a talisman that magically allowed the holder to remain in a realm, and a visa. Each time he had tried, Boryn had nodded and said “Yessss, talisssman”. Phil had finally conceded that they were largely similar objects.)

“And the Dark Elves?” Phil had prompted.

Boryn made a low, angry clucking noise. “They take my traj,” Boryn said sharply. “Nesssstmate who lays the eggsss.” Nestmates were siblings, Phil knew, usually from the same clutch of eggs. “Traj are good fighters. They take my kahn. Kahn hunt the richesss. Elves wear their ssskin for armour.” Boryn lowered pjr head and butted Phil’s side. He crouched down and wrapped both arms around Boryn’s neck. “Only shol left,” Boryn said sadly. “Me. Five nestmatesss in every clutch. Elvesss always leave the shol.”

Phil scratched along Boryn’s spine, and the wyrm let out an uncertain grumble. “Do you know about the... the plague of the Dark Elves?” he asked. Boryn shook pjr head. “It grows inside people,” Phil prompted. “It makes them fall asleep and they don’t wake up.”

Boryn snorted. “Elvessss don’t wake up,” pjr corrected. “Men don’t. Wyrmsss do.”

Phil’s hands tightened behind Boryn’s ears, and the wyrm happily coiled around him again. “Tell me,” he said firmly. “Tell me everything you know.”

Boryn twisted and looked up at Phil with a large, red eye. “Thissss is knowledge?” the wyrm asked.

“Yes,” Phil replied. “This is possibly the most valuable knowledge in the whole city right now.” Boryn rumbled happily, and Phil nearly had the breath squeezed out of him as the wyrm snuggled him tightly with pride.

~*~

If there was one thing that Phil had initially struggled to adapt to when he had moved to New York, it had been the sheer volume of the place. There was noise everywhere (although he’d been living with a musician at the time, so he was aware that he had brought at least some of the noise with him). Clint teased Phil about his ‘principal voice’, but it had started as a tone that could cut through the noise of a classroom and had developed into a true asset when it came to things like ordering coffee on the street. And Phil wasn’t the only person who had such talents. Director Fury, for example, have a tone that could send people cowering without even raising his voice. It had something to do with the sharpness of his words, the cutting way he spoke.

“— Need I remind you all that we have a stud of horses infected with this very same thing and they are eating my agents —”

Fury had arrived shortly after Phil on Wednesday evening, and had been telling people off since he had walked in the building. “He’s not always like this,” a redheaded woman in jeans and a leather jacket whispered.

“One can only hope,” Phil murmured in return.

“—We are running out of fluffy bunnies to throw at the Hulk, one of our master assassins is sleepwalking—”

“He’s actually quite friendly when it suits him.”

“I made him laugh once,” Phil replied. The woman gave him an appraising glance. “Natasha, right?” Phil asked. She’d been blonde that last time he’d seen her, but he had a good memory for faces.

“—you motherfuckers have all been appraised of the severity of the situation—”

She held out a dainty hand. “Natasha Romanov,” she said by way of introduction. 

“—and I get up here to find you all having a goddamned pizza party?”

“Phil Coulson,” he replied, taking her hand lightly. 

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Natasha said politely.

“—Did some asshole clean the coffee machine? What the hell are you people doing?—”

“And it’s a delight to see you again, Ms Romanov,” Phil said in return. 

Natasha’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, you are charming,” she said with a smile. It was easier to place her with the red hair, though it was the context that gave the game away. Phil was exchanging pleasantries with the Black Widow, of all people. It was an unreal week.

“—And what the fuck is he doing in here?” Fury cried, pointing at Phil.

Phil stared at the tip of Fury’s finger for a long moment, before looking up to meet the Director’s eye. “I brought the pizza,” he said simply.

“It’s good pizza,” Natasha said as Fury turned on Doctor Hattersly and prepared to keelhaul her for failing to maintain adequate security standards in a SHIELD facility.

“I got it from Least-Authentic Jo’s,” Phil replied.

“I’ve heard good things about that place.”

“She does pretty amazing pizza,” Phil agreed. Phil and Natasha piped down and straightened up when Fury finished with the good doctor and turned his attention to Phil. 

“I understand,” Fury said in a voice that was level and polite, but was also clearly very cranky at the world in general, “that you wanted to come down here and hold Barton’s hand and all of that sappy goop, but that is just not going to happen. That man is so heavily quarantined that we’re going to burn the building down once he’s out of here.”

“Actually,” Phil said, reaching into his satchel bag, “I’m not here for visiting hours.”

He hadn’t intended on having such a terrifying audience for his display, and he felt more than a little silly as he pulled on the thick, heavy protective gloves he had liberated from the chemistry department. They were used for everything from handling the small volume of dry ice that the school got to toy with every year, to tugging stuck trays out of a hot oven in the cafeteria and he would be in a lot of trouble if he damaged them. He was also aware that the gloves wouldn’t offer much protection, but some was still better than none.

He pulled a chipped china plate out of his bag and set it on the table. Then he gingerly pulled a glass jar out and set it on the plate. It had taken a while to find a type of glass that the contents wouldn’t immediately eat through, and Phil wasn’t enough of a chemist to understand why there was a difference at all. Thankfully he had chemistry teachers at his disposal, and the problem was now theirs. Very, _very_ carefully, Phil unscrewed the jar. 

“I don’t know what the hell that is,” Fury said flatly, “but I know I’m not going to like it.”

“One of my staff members happens to be familiar with the plant parasite you’re dealing with,” Phil explained as he slid a pair of goggles on. “There are some species in other realms that have developed defences against infection.” Using a fork, Phil picked a slice of mushroom off the leftover pizza. He carefully lowered it to the lip of the jar, and let it slide in.

There was a flash, golden-blue, as the fungus hit the thick, syrupy liquid, and then a loud sizzle as it was consumed. When the reaction stopped there was no indication that the mushroom had ever passed the lip of the jar. Even the trail of oil it had left as it slid down the side had been obliterated. 

Fury broke the silence with a conceded, “Interesting.”

“It’s saliva,” Phil explained. “It eats through most things.”

“But not glass?” Doctor Hattersly asked, stepping forward as if to pick up the jar.

“Not some glass,” Phil clarified, and the Doctor dropped her hand. “And not bone, hence the bone china. Though the low bone content means that it only really slows it down.” Natasha made a thoughtful humming noise beside him, as if considering the possibilities. Phil carefully put the tin lid back on the jar. It was a nearly useless precaution, but Phil really didn’t want to risk getting any on his shoes. Or any other part of his person. Or the floor.

Natasha crouched by the edge of the table, peering at the jar. “And you came all the way down here with this in your bag?”

“Yes,” Phil replied as he removed the goggles and gloves. “And the Mountain Dew,” he added, gesturing to the large bottle sitting on the table next to the garlic bread.

Natasha smiled, a small, sharp, and delighted expression. “What is it?”

“Saliva,” Phil explained.

Fury gave Phil a dull look. “You milked your pet dragon,” he said flatly.

“Wyrm,” Phil corrected. 

“And you think this is going to endear me to it?” Fury asked dully, turning his glare onto the jar of deadly slobber. “Having an animal that can kill people by licking their hands?”

Phil shifted his jaw. He was running on no sleep and was wearing a borrowed tie. He had a headache that was either due to far too much caffeine or not nearly enough. He had spent most of the day on the phone trying to reschedule responsibilities so he could sneak into a high security facility for the second time in a week in order to try and help someone who would probably be Phil’s better half if they could ever manage to find the time to have a conversation about it and if Clint ever woke up from what had to be the worst reaction to patting a horse in recorded history.

“I really don’t care what you think,” Phil said sharply. Natasha straightened from her crouch by the table, and Fury turned to face Phil, his hands on his hips. “I’m not placing a lot of value in an intelligence organisation that _didn’t think_ to ask a former occupant of Svartalfheim for information regarding an organism that just so happens to come from Svartalfheim.”

Fury narrowed his eye at Phil, but it occurred to Phil that pushing his luck while inside one of the city’s more advanced medical facilities would actually rank on the list of smarter decisions he’d have made that week. “And Boryn is not my pet, and is not an animal, and we would be working on the applicant’s statement for the Hearing for Asylum, Personhood, and Residency _right now_ if not for the fact that Clint _not_ spending the rest of his life lurching around as a victim to the Sakrdsvenge happens to be a priority of mine.” Phil bit off the rest of his tirade, aware that it would devolve very quickly into foot-stamping and personal insults.

There was another of the long, heavy silences that seemed to trail around after Fury like atmospheric ducklings.

“That’s not a bad priority,” the director said at last, nodding. “Alright people, pizza-party is over. Romanov, I want you on point for the battle plan here. Hattersly, you need to get every piece of information that you can out of this man. I want this whole mess killed off and cleaned up within days. And you,” he said, returning his attention to Phil. Phil met the director’s stare, steeling himself for being ejected from the premises at best and threats to the safety of his loved ones at worst. “You can take a load off,” Fury said, before flashing him an amused grin. “You’re already making everyone else look bad.”

~*~

Phil coiled the end of his tie around his fingers. His other hand lay on the table, covered with a plastic bag filled with ice chips. Clint had a strong grip.

“He should be fine,” Natasha said, setting a warm drink down in front of Phil. She was wearing her uniform, a familiar and formidable figure. The mug of hot chocolate had a large, fluffy marshmallow floating in it, already gooey around the edges. Phil nodded. 

He wasn’t an expert when it came to barbaric surgical procedures that were the stuff of nightmares, but the one he had just witnessed seemed to have gone according to plan. He untangled his fingers from his tie and took a sip of the hot chocolate. It was hot and sweet, and surprisingly rich. He glanced up at Natasha and she gave him a knowing smile in return.

“We’ll let him sleep overnight,” Natasha continued as she took the seat opposite Phil, angling the chair away from the table and slumping down in it. She had a pretty profile, but to Phil’s eyes she was staggeringly young. All of the Avengers had been photographed with masks off and helmets thrown aside and pre-greening. Iron Man, Captain America, and Thor got the bulk of the media coverage, for obvious reasons. Clint and Natasha had barely-hidden identities, their eyes covered and the line of their noses and the angle of their cheekbones altered by goggles. Natasha tended to lose hers early on in proceedings, if photographs in the newspapers were any indication, and Clint had pulled his off once the avalanche of undead museum exhibits had finally rumbled to a close, looking at Phil with curious interest and a smile on his face. Phil was still uncertain as to what he’d done to earn such attention. 

Clint hadn’t been smiling earlier. Phil shifted his bruised and abused hand, resettled the ice pack over it. Boryn had warned him that wyrms waking from the Sakrdsvenge tended to be moody and disoriented. Clint had been terrifying. 

“You should drop back in tomorrow,” Natasha said, breaking the silence. “Clint is occasionally better company when he’s conscious.”

Phil smiled at the joke. “I have been informed,” he said delicately, “that the security arrangements for this facility will be changing.”

“Oh really?” Natasha replied, looking amused by this piece of news.

(The security arrangements had already changed, in fact. It was simply due to the guard at the front desk recognising Phil, and Phil having a passable mockery of a badge to flash as he strode past in addition to a box of gourmet cupcakes, that had gotten him into the facility for Clint’s… procedure. Phil was holding off on leaving simply because he was a little concerned that he would run into Agent Hill, who was even more irritated than Director Fury with Phil’s habit of getting into places that he shouldn’t. At least Fury found Phil somewhat amusing. Hill had looked at him like he was a bug that she was itching to step on.) 

“Mm-hm,” Phil said, spooning up his marshmallow and eating it. “A senior agent will be monitoring proceedings during the re-training of all hospital personnel. Everyone entering and leaving the building will need to go through a five-point security check. Street entrances will only be accessible with a SHIELD security pass. Any unauthorised persons found within the building will be placed into holding until such a time that it is convenient for them to be processed.”

“I hear that can take weeks,” Natasha added.

“It’s all very intimidating,” Phil replied.

“We can’t let the riff-raff in.”

“It would be ridiculous to even consider sneaking in.”

“Exactly,” Natasha said firmly.

Phil pulled his hand out from under the ice pack and flexed his fingers. His knuckles cracked and his palm ached from Clint’s crushing grip. “I was thinking of dropping by a little after eight, after Boryn’s hearing.”

Natasha laughed, and the sound revealed a reckless streak in her. “I like that plan.”

Phil smiled into his hot chocolate, and smoothed his tie down with a cold and clumsy hand. It had been a week of foolish plans, but they had all been good ones. And it would be so very good to see Clint again.


End file.
